Norda wasn’t anyone’s idea of a pleasant dwelling, yet out of all his properties, Vincent had opted to reside there. Other men might have chosen his principality, the pleasant southern county close to his parents’ home, or perhaps Wellyem, a quiet and peaceful place.

Vincent was a man of fortune, and not only because he’d been born that way. From his father, he’d inherited a title, certainly; the rest, he’d earned.

Fifty years ago, the King had started to show signs that he was becoming feral, succumbing to the madness that had taken so many dragons. The evil dwelling in the world had taken notice and tried to invade their land.

Rhey, heir to the throne back then, had had to stay home in Telenar and keep their Kingdom together. It fell upon Vincent to lead their troops and rid Farden of orcs, goblins, undead things, and, worse yet: some dragons of Absolia, the Kingdom of Fiery Shadow. The King’s sickness had caused them to send scouts, no doubt to report whether Farden was ready to fall.

Many of their peers died during those dozen years; soldiers and too many nobles to count. Vincent, who, until then, had been nothing, simply known as a young lordling that couldn’t shift, rose to what he now was.

He was first to charge, and while staying in his human skin, rather than adopting scales or fur like most of his men, he still took down countless enemies. There were songs written in his honor, and wall tapestries woven, illustrating him riding a dark feral fire-breather, his sword plunged into its skull.

The old King left the realm, finally. Vincent had expected that the war would continue, get worse perhaps, for dragons weren’t known to bow down to those who hadn’t proven themselves. A civil war wouldn’t have surprised anyone. But, instead of demanding the crown that was his by birthright, Rhey proved himself wise. He joined Vincent on the field and, together, they finally pushed their enemies out of their lands. The last battle occurred right here, in Norda. The men saw their princeling fight and bleed alongside them. Rhey earned their respect and was crowned with the approval of his people. There were some who whispered that it should have been Vincent, but his support of Rhey, and his total refusal to even be considered as a potential King, brought an end to that brand of nonsense.

Vincent’s reward for his courage and loyalty was more gold than he knew what to do with. He’d accepted it, because Rhey would have it no other way. Yet, he did object to the baronet, and the duchy.

“I’ve no use of them,” said he. “Being Prince in the South is enough for any man, surely.”

“Yet, you’ll take Wellyem, because no one else would. It’s right opposite to the Lakeland, which makes it dangerous; when the orcs came, the lord of Wellyem was the first to fall. And you’ll take Norda, because no one else could. Wellyem is dangerous, but useless to any army. The cold mountains, the Arm of Sea and the perilous roads to get there would cut off any substantial force. I need my best man in this duchy, and that is you.”

So, he’d taken both and made Norda his home.

Vincent was given three hundred men to guard it; this was a job Rhey had entrusted to him because he knew just how seriously Vincent took it.

He’d seen villages pillaged, castles burned, and foreign dragons descending upon them. He’d never see it again if it could be helped.

Occasionally, Rhey called him to Telenar and made him take a break away from his post; when he didn’t, Vincent remained here, in the high tower on guard, arms folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the other side of their wall.

Thirty years, he’d protected the opening, yet he was as vigilant now as he had been on the first day.

Today felt different, although Vincent couldn’t tell how, exactly; it was perhaps too quiet. No animal, no sound, nothing troubled the darkening winter day. There wasn’t so much as an eagle in sight. His eyes narrowed.

“Kross,” he called, his voice thundering across the fortress.

His best man appeared within minutes. Kross was his foreman, and his wings, when need be. Proud as they were, dragons did not like to be ridden, yet the dominant, humongous creature let Vincent fly on his back in battle.

In his human form, the man was large, bulky, with a head almost entirely covered in red hair; a long beard and hair plaited down his back. Like Vincent, he was a half-breed, rather than a pure dragon; his father had been a bear.

Some said his mixed heritage was the reason why Vincent didn’t shift. When they uttered their nonsense within Kross’ hearing range, the gentle giant towered over them and glowered until they squirmed. Such was his loyalty.

“You’re heading the patrol outside tonight?”

His memory rarely failed him but he asked, nonetheless. His man replied, “Aye, with four other guards, in a couple of hours, through to midnight.”

“Make that five,” Vincent replied. “I’ll be in the party.”

Kross lifted a surprised brow. Vincent liked surveying the lands from high ground.

“Sir?”

“Just a feeling,” he said. He might have left it at that if he’d been speaking to anyone else. As he trusted Kross, he added, “There’s something in the air, I can almost taste it.”

He was young, for one of his kind, but his three hundred years of experience had taught him to trust his instincts. Particularly those he couldn’t explain.

“I’ll post another dozen guards, then,” his foreman announced.

At first, Vincent felt almost embarrassed with his unfounded dread, but as the afternoon darkened, close to dusk, the men he walked with grew tense, shifty and startled by their own steps.

“Magics,” Grojn whispered. “By my scales, I sense magics around us.”

This shouldn’t have been such alarming news; dragons could perform elemental spells - fire and air were their natural friends, of course, but some of their kind had an affinity with earth, and even water, sometimes. They also had plenty of allies with magics about them. Yet, they were all on their guard, mistrusting the power they felt. An ally wouldn’t have hid in the darkness, creeping around them the way this mage was. Vincent knew more than most about all magics and he recognized the feel of the spells around them.

Long ago, when he’d been young and easily impressed, he’d had the good fortune meet the cold and mysterious elf prince of Endar, Argon. The prince was born with more gifts in his pinky finger than a thousand mages; he was what they called an Aether-born Sorcerer.

Aether was an element of the immaterial world, a force of goodness. Being in the presence of an Aether-born was a blessing Vincent would never forget. But then, as children often did, he’d asked the first intrusive question that came to mind: “What does Shadow feel like, Prince?”

For Shadow was Aether’s opposite, the power of evil that balanced the world. He’d read that anyone infused with Aether was born with just as much Shadow.

“Vincent!” his father had groaned, apologetic. “Sorry, friend. Children could start wars with their unruly tongues, if we let them.”

“If we let them,” Argon had replied.

The elf then crouched to be at eye level with Vincent.

“I sense courage about you, fire-breather,” he said. “Let’s see how much.”

Argon, dressed in red and gold as a member of the court of Endar, had light, almost luminous, skin and hair black as night. If anyone had asked, Vincent would have said that the elf radiated an otherworld energy, something pure, raw, but good.

Then, the elf smiled. It was not a friendly sort of smile at all - no, this one was malicious, downright cruel. Like a coat that could be removed at will, he shed all his goodness, his benevolence, revealing something dark and hollow underneath. Vincent noticed how blue his eyes really were - a cold blue, piercing him down to his bones.

The entire thing didn’t last more than an instant, the fraction of a second, yet it was still imprinted in his mind - he recalled it with more clarity than any other memory, although it had been three centuries.

“A lot of courage,” Argon noted. “You didn’t flinch. Good.”

The Prince got up, ruffled his hair and returned to his affairs. Vincent would never again ask about Shadow. He’d felt it. He knew it. He would have lived a happy life had he never felt it again.

But there was no denying it. Shadow was here now, surrounding him and his guard.

Vincent was about to give the order to retreat to the gates, when they saw it. A light in the darkness, so clear, despite the distance. It was miles away, but from Norda, they could see far into the Lakelands.

“Kross,” he called, cursing himself for his limitations. This light ought to be checked and he couldn’t do it. “Would you fly to it?”

The large man started to shift into his light green scales, when a shimmery wave emanated from the light; shimmery, yet dark all the same. There was no questioning what this was.

Shadow. Pure Shadow, heading right to them.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted, jumping on Kross’ back. The rest of his men started to shift, but they were too late; the force hit him before they could do anything about it.

Vincent stared in horror, feeling helpless and foolish. Why had they guarded these walls without a mage at their side to prevent this sort of thing? His men were all going to die with him because of his oversight. There were so few mages who could trump a dragon. In his arrogance, he hadn’t accounted for them.

But the Shadow took no life that day. It could have, effortlessly, perhaps.

Instead, it hit something else, something that was far more precious: the golden, immaterial wall erected at their border.

Any friend of their realm, and perhaps the occasional fiend without real evil in their heart, could cross it. That was how they’d ended up infested with orcs, some rogues, and other undesirables in the past. But no actual army, or real threat, could have just walked into the Kingdom of Farden with the intention to harm its people, thanks to that wall.

But just like that, their only defense against evil was gone, swallowed by darkness.